


Hospice

by huddledintrenches



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddledintrenches/pseuds/huddledintrenches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr is dying. Sansa is his attending physician. Written about a year ago and finally posted now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.	Prologue

_Breathe in. Exhale. Pretend as though life isn’t slipping out from underneath you. Calm down. Repeat._

_He crashed. He might die._ These are the facts. She takes a breath and tries to think of all the ways this could go, the roads she could take and how the ending to this story might play out.

On the one hand, he’s as good as dead anyway. If he lives, no one can guarantee his life will be worth living. No one can guarantee he won’t arrest again today, tomorrow, or the day after that.

On the other hand, she thinks she might die with him if he does.

Eyes closed, she notices how much the water falling down into the sink in the women’s bathroom reminds her of the morphine drip in Room 216. How the inside of her skull, eyes pressed together so much it almost hurts, are as much shades drawn on her grip of reality as the curtains in his room when letting the light in is too much to bear.

Each drop is another second in which he’s slipping away, leaving her, alone, help- and powerless in a way that she’s sworn she would never find herself in again.

It takes her almost a minute to realise she’s crying, her hands clawing on the hem of her scrubs, almost tearing the fabric. Hands shaking, she turns the lock on the door, flinching at the clicking sound it makes.

Standing up right, she looks in the mirror, feeling nothing but emptiness at the sight of the dark circles around their eyes, the mascara stains on her hands and cheeks. A few months ago, she would have been concerned. She might have cared what her colleagues would think, what anyone seeing her like this could mean for her reputation. She would have told herself to be strong, to be calm and that everything would be alright.

That was a few weeks ago. When she hadn’t met him. When she was no one but Sansa Stark, a medical intern at Stark Memorial Hospital, the daughter of its long dead founder, eager to make him proud.

She isn’t sure who she is now.

 _Cat, maybe_ , a voice whispers at the back of her head. _If he wants me to be_.

 


	2. II.	Kettering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You made me sleep all uneven, and I didn't believe them   
> when they told me that there was no saving you.

Sansa hears about his arrival a few hours before he gets there.

“They’re transferring Petyr Baelish _here_. To our hospital. This afternoon”, she hears Jeyne say in the locker rooms as they’re getting ready for their shift. The fact that Jeyne Poole, who normally isn’t too concerned with current affairs, knows about him says a lot.

“The politician?”, Sansa asks.

He’s been on the news consistently for the last few weeks. The government’s most important political advisor, rumoured to be due to resign in a matter of months because of a brain tumour. That information alone is enough to keep the press on their toes. From what Sansa’s heard, most people are convinced that without him, the government will be doomed.

Jeyne nods. “Yeah.”

It makes sense he would choose to come here, Sansa thinks. It would have been a smart political move to stay in an state hospital for the duration of his treatment, better for the party he represents, but if his case is as serious as the press seems to believe, his choices are to consider private treatment or end up dead.

 _Still, the Tories won’t be happy_ , she thinks, grinning as she laces up her shoes.

“So, do we know who’s going to be treating him yet?” Sansa asks. “If he’s a neuro case, he should be with Doctor Lannister, right? I mean, the press is going to be all over this, her father won’t even think twice before handing it to her.”

Tywin Lannister had taken over Stark Memorial after her father died. His daughter Cersei was instated as head of neurology only a year and a half before Sansa started her residency, but she couldn’t say she was particularly fond of either of them.

Her parents had rarely talked about the Lannisters when they were still alive, but Sansa remembered that her mother had never been very fond of them. She can’t say why, but there is something about Cersei Lannister that intimidates her, something that goes beyond the fact she was a tougher teacher than most around the hospital and that a lot of the residents were terrified of her.

“ _Of course_ Lannister’s getting the case. I’m not complaining, though. We’re on her service, so I reckon we might have a shot at getting to assist.” Jeyne smiles. “Let’s go. I don’t want to miss this.”

 

/

 

He’s flown in from London in the early afternoon. By then, most of the staff know he’s coming. Stark Memorial is one of the best private hospitals in the country and dealing with famous patients isn’t exactly a rare occurrence. Still, no one Sansa has worked on so far had been quite so important as Mr Baelish.

As part of her father’s legacy, the hospital admits a small number of medical interns each year in order to learn from some of the country’s most revolutionary doctors. Under the Lannisters, that number shrinks a little every year, and the admission process had been more than rigorous when Sansa had applied.

Everyone working for the hospital goes through a meticulous screening procedure to ensure doctor-patient confidentiality is excellently preserved, something that becomes a great deal more important when the patient is internationally renowned and, much like today, the press is already assembling in front of the hospital gates.

Jeyne was right. To no one’s surprise, Petyr Baelish’s case had been handed to Dr Lannister. His room is situated in the East Wing, the place in the hospital reserved for the highest-paying patients, secluded from the rest of the building. Baelish would be given no cause to complain about a breach of privacy here.

She is checking on another one of Lannister’s patients on the regular neurology ward when she pages her. Her heart jumps a bit when she realises she’s actually going to be given access to the case. She knows Lannister doesn’t _like_ her, exactly – she doesn’t like anyone, as far as Sansa is aware. Yet she must have rated her less incompetent than the other residents if she chose her to be in on this.

She almost trips on her way to the East Wing, eager not to lessen her chances by being late. When she finally makes it there, Lannister hands her his chart without hesitation, already moving towards his room as she explains the procedure.

“I don’t need to explain to you how this is going to go, I hope. He’s an incredibly important patient to us, which is why I’m going to need you not to fuck this up. You’ll do as you’re told, you won’t waste time, and everything he wants, he gets. He will have no cause to complain here.”

Sansa nods. “Of course”, her eyes hovering over his chart. _Damn_. The tabloids weren’t far off with their assumptions. A rapidly growing tumour, pressing down on his frontal lobe. His case file include several scans taken in the last few months, each looking worse than the next.

When she looks up, she notices they’ve stopped, Lannister’s eyes fixed on her. “Based on this, what would you conclude?”

She swallows, hesitantly. “That he’s as good as dead. Or rather, that he’s about to lose everything that makes life worth living. The tumour on his frontal lobe is rapidly expanding and could lead to severe changes in his behavioural pattern, memory loss, speech impediment and more. He has a few months at best. I’m not sure anyone can help him now. This is bad.”

Cersei Lannister’s laugh sounds hollow at best. “We’re going to help him, little dove. We’re going to have to.”

She opens the door in front of them and they enter the room, which is empty save for a few paintings, a bed-side table with a vase full of flowers positioned on it, a chair and the bed, in which Petyr Baelish sits upright, connected to a morphine drip, giving orders to a smartly dressed woman sat next to him.

 _His assistant_ , Sansa thinks. That was odd. She didn’t think anyone in a condition like him should be strong enough to work at this point.

Petyr Baelish looks almost exactly like he does on the tabloid photos of him. Except that he’s traded his well-fitted suit for a hospital gown that replaces the usual sense of authority he commands with an odd sense of vulnerability that seems out of place. Still, he doesn’t look at all weak, despite the fact that there’s a tumour pressing down on his brain that could – and, with all probability – will, erase everything that makes him who he is in a heartbeat.

 _He’s a time bomb_ , she realises. He seems alright now, seems together, lucid. But that could change any minute. The thought almost makes her sick.

Baelish quickly goes quiet as Cersei and Sansa enter, gesturing the woman to leave the room, smiling as he extends a hand to his doctor to great her.

“Mr Baelish. I’m Doctor Cersei Lannister, I’m going to be dealing with your case. This is Doctor Stark, she will be assisting me.” Briskly, Lannister shakes his hand.

Baelish’s eyes hush to Sansa, then. For a moment he’s silent, seemingly studying her. She feels oddly vulnerable with his gaze fixed on her. For a long moment, he seems to take all of her in at once, until finally his eyes meet hers. Awkwardly, she smiles at him. “I will be here if you need anything, Mr Baelish.”

Their eyes still locked, he breaks into a smile that should have been warm but seems oddly frozen by the cold expression in his eyes.

“Of course”, he says, finally.

Cersei clears her throat. “We won’t have to explain to you how grave your situation is, Mr Baelish”

A laugh. “Yes, I would prefer if you didn’t. I assure you, Doctor Lannister, I have been informed by more than a few of your colleagues how grave my situation is. Until I spoke with your father, every doctor I had talked to refused to operate on me. All of them have told me chemotherapy isn’t an option. Now, I would like you to tell me something different.

I refuse to give in. At this point, I am aware of the symptoms of the tumour, but I am still in control of myself. I would like things to remain that way.”

“I believe there is a way to help you, Mr Baelish. Our aim would be to remove the entire tumour surgically, which, if we’re successful, would stop your condition from getting worse and may even leave the option for a complete rehabilitation, in time.

The procedure is highly experimental and if we fail, you may end up suffering a great deal more than you already have. However, there is a chance that it may work. I am willing to take that chance.” She gives him a winning smile, one Sansa has seen far too many times to still believe that it’s genuine. Still, if she didn’t know better, she might have believed her.

Baelish nods. “Good. Schedule the surgery, as soon as you can.”

“Of course. We will let you know as soon as we have news. In the meantime, the nurses here will take good care of you.”

When they leave, Cersei sends her on her way with the directions to research the procedure she’s planned.

Sansa knows it will be a few days before she would even consider operating on him. Although he seems steady, the plane journey to the hospital must have put a strain on his body. Lannister will want him to be in the best possible condition, she’s sure.

She spends the rest of the day on the computer at the hospital’s research lab. Cersei was right. The procedure’s extremely tricky. The area of the brain in which the tumour is located is extremely vulnerable, and the possible bad outcomes of the surgery numerous. They say Cersei Lannister is one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. Sansa catches herself hoping that they’re right.


	3. III.	Sylvia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I want us to ally, but you swing on little knives   
> They're only sharp on one side

Sansa awakes with a jolt when she feels someone shaking her by her shoulders. When she looks up, blinking, it’s Jeyne.  
It takes her a moment to realise she’s still in the research lab. She looks down on the notes she made earlier, sleepily trying to make sense of then. The watch on her wrist tells her it’s just past 11.   
“What’s up, Jeyne?”  
“Doctor Lannister said she wants to see you before she heads home”, Jeyne grins. “You better get going, she doesn’t like being kept waiting.”   
Instantly awake, Sansa quickly gathers her notes and goes to look for her superior.  
She catches Cersei just as she’s about to leave. “Stark, I’m glad to see you finally made it.“  
Out of breath, Sansa mutters an apology.  
“No matter now. A nurse just called me to tell you that Mr Baelish has requested your presence.”  
“I was about to head home, actually, can it wait until tomorrow?” Sansa regrets asking the moment she sees Cersei’s features fall.   
“Certainly not. Remember what I told you. You would do well to give this case your full attention.”   
Sansa nods almost instantly. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll check on him right away.”  
“Good night. I hope I made the right decision in choosing you for this case.” And with that, Cersei left her to herself.  
Hesitantly, she makes her way too Room 216 in the East Wing. Mr Baelish’s room. Everything he wants, he gets, Cersei had said.   
When she reaches his room, the whole wing is eerily quiet. Apart from a nurse at the front desk, the hallway leading up to his room was empty. She knocks on the door lightly, and, after hearing a quiet “Come in”, enters.  
He’s still in the same position she found him in earlier today, sitting upright in his bed, propped up by two pillows. This time, he’s typing incessantly on a laptop in front of him. When he sees it’s her, he gives her a short wave before he stores it away safely in the bedside drawer next to him.  
Aside from the needle in his arm connecting him to the morphine drip, he looks almost perfectly healthy.  
“I’m not sure you should be working this late, Mr Baelish. Or working at all, for that matter. You need rest.” He gestures her to sit down on the chair beside him, smiling to himself.  
“I’m afraid I can’t afford to take your advice, Doctor – Stark, was it?” He pauses before mentioning her name, and for a second Sansa almost thinks it’s intentional.   
“I’m afraid the Government of Great Britain would not take very kindly to it if I decided to rest when its incompetent figureheads are in need of me. Especially since I showed them up just a few hours earlier today when I betrayed the public image of our country’s state hospitals and by choosing to be treated in this one.” He smiles – almost a genuine smile this time, Sansa thinks, and feels herself joining in.  
She takes a moment to study his features. He doesn’t look old, exactly, despite being in his late thirties. Tired, yes, exhausted even, but still charming in a way she can’t quite place.  
“You asked the nurse to call for me.”  
“I did.” His gaze flickers to the now dark window. “I understand that I’m to place my life in the hands of your Doctor Lannister. Do you think that’s wise?”  
Sansa hesitates for a moment. “I-I’m sorry?”  
“Do you trust her to save my life?”  
“She’s a very good doctor. She has more good outcomes than most of the doctors around here, which is definitely saying something. She’s the head of the neurology department at – what, 34? My point is, she’s very good.” She hears him chuckle.  
“Yes, I worked out that much by typing her name into Google. What I’m asking you is – do you trust her? Like her?”  
Sansa thinks about that for a while. She hasn’t known Cersei Lannister for more than a year and a half. Still, that should be more than enough time to judge her character. Still, she couldn’t remember ever hearing her boss talk about anything personal, anything deviating from work that could have helped her get to know her better. “I… don’t know, Mr Baelish. I trust her abilities, certainly. I think that should be enough.”  
A smile plays on his lips. Then, suddenly, he looks straight at her. “Her father is Tywin Lannister, the owner of this very hospital. Your name is Sansa Stark. Your father is the founder of this hospital. Or was, should I say? Until he died, in a car accident, 15 years ago.” He points towards his laptop on the bedside table. “Considering your personal history with this place, I thought you’d know a little more about her.”  
Sansa blinks. She didn’t know whether or not to be surprised he researched her. “I-I don’t know the Lannisters very well, Mr Baelish. I’m sorry.”  
The smile he gives her could have seemed kind had it come from anyone else. “No need to be sorry.” He closes his eyes, then, sinking back into the pillows for the first time she’s seen him. From one moment to the next, he looks strangely weak.   
She realises that, just for a moment, she’s forgotten that he’s sick.  
“It seems I have kept you long enough. I trust you will be here tomorrow?”, he says, quietly.  
“Of course. Goodnight, Mr Baelish.” She gets out in a hurry, suddenly very eager to get home and away from him.  
“Goodnight, Doctor Stark”  
She turns the lights off on her way out. Before she closes the door, she catches a glimpse of his hands clinging around the bed sheets in a way that seemed strangely desperate. Almost inaudibly, she hears him gasp in pain.  
She tells the nurse to increase his dose of morphine on her way out.

/

It’s almost 3 in the morning when Sansa finally gets home. She pulls into the driveway of the house she’s lived in all her life now, the town around her already asleep.  
She makes herself a cup of coffee and flips on the switch on her computer. She types in Petyr Baelish into the search engine of her web browser and starts reading.  
It’s another hour before she finally makes her way into bed.


	4. IV.	 Atrophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd happily take all those bullets inside you   
> and put them inside of my self

He calls for her again the next day. And the day after that.   
Apart from his assistant, who, much like Sansa, after some time, comes and goes at his whims, no one comes to see him. He’s not married, has no wife or children. She established that much, going through old articles about him the night before. Still, she found it sad that no one was here to see him, that no one was there to help him through this.  
She expects him to ask for her medical advice, showing him her notes about the procedure, the ones she annotates and fills whenever she gets a break, and explaining Doctor Lannister’s methods, but after a while she realises that he’s not too interested in any of it.   
On the third day, Doctor Lannister schedules his surgery for 10 days hence, and promises her she will get to assist if she gives him what he wants, gives in to his whims.  
Their conversations always seem to run their course in a similar way. First, he will quiz her about his case, his form of treatment and, with pursed lips, will listen patiently to her answers, adding the occasional frown or nod, careful never to interrupt her.  
Strangely enough, she feels as though he were a teacher and she a student, in those silent moments, being interrogated harder for every discovery she makes. She presents him with her findings in the morning, tells him what his labs have taught her to conclude and sometimes he smiles, as though rewarding her with a kindness for her hard work.  
However, with a sly smile, he seemingly always finds a way to turn a conversation about surgery into a question about her decision to study medicine, or her position in the hospital and her relationship with the Lannisters, in the end. They end up talking about Sansa more oft than not, when she’s done explaining and concluding, but whenever they do, he never seems tired, like he sometimes does during rounds, when others are present, and she decides that’s a good thing.  
Still, she feels strangely toyed with, at times. She secretly wonders whether it’s all a game to him, having her sent to him and asking her seemingly endless questions about everything and nothing. But then again, if this is his way of coping with his situation, she’s willing to oblige.  
Before she knows it, she spends more time in Room 216 than anywhere else in the hospital. Other patients slowly become a quick errand she has to run. She’s not too surprised. No one second year resident has been able to work so extensively on a case like Baelish’s.   
She turns down Jeyne and Myranda when they ask her to come to the cafeteria with them for lunch. She knows they’re curious about the time she’s spending with Mr Baelish and in a way she feels proud to have been chosen for this task, in spite of herself.  
She flinches when he first mentions the name Eddard Stark. It catches her off guard. She’s stopped by his room before heading home. He didn’t ask for her this time, but she was sure he would have, if she hadn’t come.  
Sansa doesn’t remember how they got there, but amidst a discussion that started with him asking about the recovery period after the surgery, he suddenly bolts upright and asks, “Do you think I will survive the surgery?”  
Silence, then. She looks down on her notes – a couple of them she left on his bedside table for him to review if he got bored throughout the day. She’s almost certain he wants her to say No, Mr Baelish, I think you’re doomed. It’s what every other doctor has told him so far, apart from Cersei, and with all likelihood, it was the truth.  
Still. “Yes”, she says, finally. She looks up at him and tries to spot a hint of surprise in his expression. “Doctor Lannister is very good. I think that at the very least you will survive”  
His features are unreadable to her. If he didn’t believe her, he didn’t let it show. “In that case, it seems I have nothing to worry about”  
“But”, she mutters, almost afraid to say it, “even if you survive, we can’t know for certain if you will like what you’ve become. The damage done to your brain during the surgery could do damage beyond imagination. It’s possible you will never be the same, after next week.”  
She waits for a witty response, but for the first time, it seems to her, he has none. His lip twitches and she’s almost afraid to see that he’s scared.   
“I… I’m sorry, you know all this, you’ve been told so many times-”  
He cuts her off, then, and the charm and sarcasm she can usually detect in his voice are gone. “Where was Tywin Lannister at Eddard Stark’s funeral?”  
“Mr Baelish, what-”  
“Tywin Lannister was the chief of surgery for 15 years before your father’s death. Barely a few months after his death, he bought the hospital. 15 years of working together, he must have made an appearance when they put his predecessor in the ground.” Petyr’s face, motionless, almost frightens her.  
She swallows, as if to wash down her fear. “Yes. He was there. He spoke to my aunt Lysa at the funeral. I remember.”   
Averting her eyes, she tries not to let him see that she’s crying, that the memory of her parents’ funeral still hurts her after all this time. But maybe this is what he hoped would happen, anyhow.  
Her hands curl up into fists, and she tells herself the same thing she has been telling herself ever since her father died. Be strong, Sansa.  
“You asked me if I trusted Cersei Lannister. I don’t. I don’t trust the Lannisters.”  
The words are out before she knows she’s saying them, before she even notices she’s been thinking them all along. She regrets them almost instantly, when she realises what she’s just implied.  
“I’m sorry, Mr Baelish, I shouldn’t have said that, Doctor Lannister is a great doctor, you’re in excellent hands-”  
“Petyr”, he says suddenly, his expression softening. Before she knows it he’s reached out for her cheek, wiping a tear away.  
“Petyr”, she repeats, and there’s a reaction to the sound of his name that she can’t really place.  
She wishes he were easier to figure out.  
“You’re not going to die.” She doesn’t know whether she says it to comfort him or herself.  
“I know.”  
He pulls away slowly, eyes still fixed on hers and not for the first time she wishes she knew what he’s thinking.  
Sansa leaves, and as always with him there is a sense that she should have both left a long time ago and yet stayed a little while longer.  
The door closed behind her, she sinks back against the wall in front of his room, trying to steady the breathing she only now realises has become ragged.  
Her mind is filled with the sudden awareness that he understands.


End file.
